Soft Touch
by igirisexual
Summary: Matthew has an ability to paint; and not just anything, either. The future is what adorns his canvas. Now, his brush has painted a glimpse at a tragedy. Families can bent and broken, but never destroyed.
1. Broken Little Family

**the prompt was 'soft'. im so sorry**

* * *

Scenes of fauna and flora; these were what covered the walls of Matthew's room. Painted on the wall as murals, or hung in frames, these paintings were his pride and joy. Years of slaving in front of a canvas were certainly paying off, as he had shown a few pieces off at a recent art fair. Sometimes he would even paint things that were to happen a little into the future. The young man blinked his violet eyes open, lips parting in a long yawn. As soon as he sat up, he was shoved from the side.

"Go back to sleep, it's like five in the morning," whined his brother, who had crawled up in Matthew's bed during last night's storm – seeing as he was terrified of them and craved comfort often. Matthew raised a brow and shoved him right back.

"This is my bed, Alfred, you hoser." He scoffed, reaching for his glasses on the side table. "I'll wake when I want to."

Alfred groaned with irritation, burying his face into the red and white duvet that cloaked Matthew's bed. "Why in hell would anyone want to wake up at _five?_" He moaned, hand pushing at his brother's hip again.

"Things to paint, colours to mix-" hummed Matthew, shuffling out of bed and moving over to the wall to flick on the main light. This was much to Alfred's discomfort, as the younger of the two let out a tired wail and hid his face a little more.

"I'll never understand you, I swear to god," he grunted, hesitantly turning his head up a bit to give a death stare to Matthew. "Find my glasses for me, will ya'? I have school but I don't want to move." Alfred elicited a soft whine, running a hand through his honey-blond locks.

"Move and I'll make you breakfast." That was a bargain Alfred would go for, and Matthew knew it.

Alfred sat up in a flash, almost tripping over the duvet as he stumbled off the bed and to the door. "Don't burn the eggs this time, 'kay?" And with that, he was gone.

Matthew let out a quiet sigh, taking a moment to turn and admire one of his latest pieces on his wall.

This canvas was adorned with beautiful scarlets and dashing ambers, striking golds and bright whites. It was a scene of autumn, captured and played with by Matthew's brush. It was a piece of life captured within a whimsical artwork, and he found himself rather proud of it.

After another moment of adoration, he tore his eyes away from his piece, and got dressed into work clothes for the morning. Work was hard to avoid, seeing as he and Alfred's parents, Francis and Arthur Bonnefoy (Francis had voted for Kirkland-Bonnefoy but Arthur would have none of it) actually owned the coffee store that he was employed at. Well, they usedto own it together.

Now, it was just Francis, seeing how Arthur had walked out on them all, done with the many disputes that occurred in their home. In the end, to try and support two growing boys and their education, Francis was almost constantly working. Matthew deemed that a little sad. His dear Papa used to be a lot happier, and he didn't always drink the weekends away. The worst things happen to the best people, he thought.

Matthew finished dressing and headed out of his room, glancing to Alfred already sitting at the table. "Alfred," he started, giving his year-younger brother a warning glare. "That's only half of your school uniform. Put on the tie and cardigan, or I'll skip the hash browns." Ah, how convenient food was as a bartering object. Puffing out his crimson cheeks, Alfred stood up and toddled away to find the rest of his uniform.

Smiling a little, he moved to the kitchen, where he worked up a culinary storm. A beautiful breakfast was what he had in mind, a treat for both he and his brother before they headed off to their places of need for the day. First, he fried and scrambled eggs, before cooking rashers of bacon for Alfred, and a small stack of waffles for himself. Francis used to make them a delicious breakfast before they both had to go to school, but that was a thing of the past. Matthew missed it dearly; Francis was only really home on some weekends and in the very early hours of the morning.

He served up the plates at the dining table, returning the wide grin Alfred gave him as the younger sat down. After he'd eaten and gotten Alfred off on the bus to school, Matthew could kick back for an hour or two and splash those vibrant colours onto the dry white of the canvas.

"Thanks for the grub," Alfred laughed quietly, patting at his full belly once he'd cleaned his plate. "Your cooking's almost as good as Papa's." He praised. Although this had been meant positively, it dampened Matthew's spirit a little.

"_Merci_-" He cut himself off. As bilingual as he'd ended up being, now was not the time. He'd just make himself more melancholy. "Thanks, little bro."

"Go and brush your teeth; I'll walk you to the bus stop." Matthew instructed with a yawn, standing up and taking their now-emptied plates.

"When did you start bein' my dad and stop being my big bro?" scoffed Alfred, who just stood, stretched his arms, and fixed the glasses Matthew had found for him earlier. Matthew just grit his teeth.

"I'm not sure, Alfred. I'm really not sure."

He walked Alfred to his bus stop, making sure that he hopped onto the right bus this time. Alfred was a rambunctious and boisterous boy, even in his last year of high school. As he turned, it was as if he was struck across the face. That was how inspiration usually got to him.

It was a scrabble back home, his sneakers squeaking a little against the warm pavement. He had to write his ideas down, he had to get at least the sketch onto canvas. As he fathomed more over this thought, Matthew pushed the door open and practically charged into his painting room. It was supposed to be Francis's room, but he didn't use it too much anymore. The bed was still over to one side, and painting equipment took up the other half of the room.

Matthew reached down for a pencil, before he let his muse take over and he started. Many fast and elegant strokes soon marked the canvas, pushed only lightly, but getting the point across. The sketch entailed of a boy – or perhaps a man – being pursued by a bus that seemed to be out to get him. He creased his brow.

He went to add more detail onto the sketch, but glanced to the wall clock in this room, and groaned. Time to head off to work. Matthew rose to his feet, letting out a weak sigh as he headed out, locking the door behind him. It didn't take him long to get to the store, and he opened it up for the morning. Work was never really too interesting, but sometimes he came across the nice person or two along the line. Just last Saturday, he had served a charming high-school couple; one of them with slicked back blond hair, and the other with the brightest smile you'd ever seen.

Matthew unlocked and then opened the door, stepping into the store with a faint smile. He dawdled not, going behind the counter and setting up the coffee machines. It didn't take long for the first customer to show up. The workday was long and uneventful. He packed up once it was closing time, and then made his way home. Since Alfred came back from school before his shift ended, he assumed that his brother would be at the house. Matthew smiled at the thought.

What he saw when he stepped inside gave him a bit of a shock.

"Papa?" He murmured, dropping his bag and hurrying over. Francis was laying face-down in the middle of the living room, just to one side of the coffee table. He didn't appear to be moving. "Papa!" repeated Matthew, crouching and worriedly shaking his father.

"Mm? Oh, _désole_," Francis whimpered, turning his head a bit to lean his cheek against the floor. He stared up at Matthew with cheerless eyes, giving a tiny and forced smile. "I must've tripped and hit my head. I stopped for drinks before coming home," He laughed quietly. That was obvious; the stench of alcohol was strong on the Frenchman's breath.

"Thank goodness you're okay," Matthew mumbled, sitting down properly since he figured Francis didn't wish to get up. "Where's Alfred? He didn't hear you fall down?" He puffed, indignant. What kind of son was Alfred, not looking after his old man like that?

"I haven't seen him," commented Francis, who lamely sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.

Matthew creased his brow. "That's weird, he should've been home by now-" he mused quietly, tensing up. "I can try calling his cell.."

"Go for it, _mon __ange_." His father mumbled, a bit too tipsy for this. "Make sure he's okay."

He used the landline to call, seeing as Alfred was the only one in the family to have a cell phone. That was because he stole it, though. The phone rang out, and this seriously alarmed Matthew. Alfred always had his phone. He would answer in two seconds flat if he received a call. "Papa, I'm going out." Matthew announced meekly, grabbing a blanket and giving it to his drunken father to curl up in. Gritting his teeth, he set out again, headed towards Alfred's school.

He wasn't sure when, but at some point, he'd changed pace from walking to running, and then sprinting down the pathway. Then, a memory struck him. Oh. Matthew let out a dumbfounded laugh as he remembered that Alfred had mentioned going over to Kiku's house this afternoon. Genius, Matthew.

Matthew sighed with relief and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling kind of stupid for sprinting all the way to the school for nothing. He turned to go home now, for he had a painting to finish.

Returning to the house, he found his father and gave him a long and warm hug, having not had the chance to do so for a while. As much as he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, Francis was still his father, and he loved him deeply. There was a kind of feeling that Matthew felt around his father and brother, a kind of connection, a kind of soft touch. Giving a little smile, he passed Francis, and headed into the bedroom where he painted.

Without much more to say or do, he passed that soft touch onto the canvas he'd started this morning. As if in a trance, Matthew painted. His strokes were smooth, and his colour choices were always flawless. The scene materialised in front of him.

It was raining in the artwork, pelting sheets of water coming down on the whole area. A grey bus seemed to be the centerpiece, but if one were to look closer, they would see the real focus of the painting. A man, running from the vehicle, was painted in the center. Matthew recognized the man in the painting as his own father. Not Francis, but Arthur. That was probably what spooked him the most.

He believed it to be another one of _those _paintings. Matthew was scared this time. He'd painting things like this before, although they were quite different things; one was Alfred shoplifting a phone, the very act that he'd got away with within the next week. Once, he had painted himself tripping on the two stairs up to the coffeeshop door. As illustrated, that very happening played out true.

Alfred showed up to the house a little later, pleasantly surprised at the sight of his father. The younger brother had always been closer to Arthur, and surely loved and missed him, but he still got along with Francis rather well. Considering he was rarely home, time around Francis was always well spent.

"I need to go again in an hour," Francis sighed, pulling his sons into a hug and kissing the tops of their heads.

"Can't you just stay for a bit longer? I like never get to see you," Alfred whined softly, to which Matthew just let out a quiet sigh. The man shook his head slightly, ruffling his son's hair gently.

"_Désole,_" murmured Francis.

This hour with Francis was spent for the most part just sitting about in the living room, curled up together, a family of three. There was still a painful emptiness from where Arthur had once been, but Matthew closed his eyes to try and shut out the memories. He didn't want to be thinking about that bastard now. As much as he didn't really want to, he resented his father for leaving like he did, taking the bulk of family funds instead of he and Alfred. Alas, the time for Francis to leave came all too soon, and they were wishing him goodbye again as he set off to work again.

"I miss times like that," remarked Alfred as he curled up against Matthew on the couch. "It was nice having Papa around for a bit." He mused quietly, this morose situation causing Matthew to sigh.

"It was, wasn't it?.." He hummed, fingers toying in Alfred's messy blond locks. "You need a haircut, bro." Matthew laughed breathily, not really focusing on what he was saying.

Alfred puffed out his cheeks, pawing at his brother's shirt, and failing to sense the mood. "Papa used to cut my hair," he mumbled quietly, lip quivering.

"Papa's just busy, but I'm trying to help out with money, yeah? The coffee store is going to get bigger and be a great hit in this town, and we'll be rolling in dough." Matthew enthused to soothe Alfred. "Then Papa won't need to work so much and he'll have time for us."

The statement saddened him as well, and before they knew it, the brothers were crying silently against one another. "Things are going to get so much better, Alfred." He mumbled, pulling out of the tight embrace to wipe away his brother's tears.


	2. Bent and Twisted

**a shorter chapter but hehehehe**

* * *

The next few mornings were quiet. Francis only showed up in the very late hours of the night, when both brothers were sleeping, and he awoke and left before they even roused. The clock ticked on and on, until it brought around sweet, sweet, Saturday.

"You're home today, Papa?" Alfred asked with wide eyes, practically jumping up and down today with excitement. These days were rare, after all.

"I'm finally on break for a few days, but I'll still have to work nights at the bar." He yawned, shrugging. Working nights at the bar didn't really mean _working_ there. Unless drinking until he was sick counted as work.

"Just stay here tonight," insisted Matthew, embracing his father – and Alfred also, as the younger of the brothers was already hugging Francis – and letting out a soft whine.

"Fine, fine, only if you two keep me company throughout today," he bargained, raising a champagne-blond brow. "What do you say we go to the cinema today, mm?" Francis hummed, mussing his sons' hair.

"That'd be cool-" Matthew was cut off by an almost-squeal from his brother.

"Can we see the new Iron Man? Please, please, please?!" He cooed, grinning. "All of my friends have seen it and Kiku can't download it for me yet, so can we?"

"Of course, _mon__ petite __ange_." Francis cooed, giving the two a tight squeeze before pulling out of the hug. "Get dressed, and we can start walking now. You're good to see this movie, _Matthieu_?" To this, Matthew nodded, a smile of his own tugging at his lips.

As if he was running on adrenaline, Alfred raced about the house, grabbing his day clothes – a hooded jacket, his Iron Man t-shirt, and baggy jeans, and running off to get dressed.

Matthew dressed casually as well, before returning to Francis, who was clad in a plain dress shirt and a loose tie. Ties always seemed to be part of Francis's look, as he usually wore something around his neck. At last, they were ready to go. Alfred joined them, and they set off walking.

"I'm so excited-" Alfred cheered, pumping his hand in the air. Despite his age, he acted like a little kid.

Matthew chuckled softly, elbowing his brother gently. "I know you are, this movie's going to be great." He cooed, ruffling Alfred's hair.

Their chatter was peaceful as they traveled, most of this consisting of Alfred asking various questions to his father about anything and everything. Time for this kind of thing was limited amongst them, so when they had it, he cherished it. This was halted when they drew to a pedestrian crossing.

Francis noticed first, as Alfred was preoccupied with pressing the button on the pole to the side. Matthew saw second, and then, finally, Alfred turned to look to the other side of the crossing. The man across from them all was equally as shocked.

"Arthur.." Francis mumbled, – he seemed to be in a sort of trance – going to take a step forward, but was tugged back by Matthew as a car sped past in front of him.

Arthur seemed to lose all the resolve he'd had as he stood on the other side of the crossing. It seemed that seeing Alfred and Matthew and their dear father Francis pained him greatly.

"Francis! Alfred, Matthew-" He wailed back, lip quivering. "I was just on my way to your place-" he mumbled, lifting the bouquet of flowers he'd been holding to show his former partner.

Lilies and chansons.. Matthew had painted a field of them not too long ago.

"I'm so sorry!" Arthur shouted across the road, holding them out and starting to weep. Francis knew enough not to go forward into the traffic. "Please, I'm begging you, take me back!"

"I-.. Arthur, I'm sorry too-.. I-.. I don't know what to say-" he stammered, staring dumbstruck at the man across from him as another car zoomed past.

"Papa, is Dad coming back..?" Alfred asked softly, nudging his father. Matthew just shushed his brother and glimpsed between each of them, waiting for the answer.

"A-Arthur.." mumbled Francis, tensing up his shoulders. "You're forgiven, Arthur."

Alfred pushed off from Francis, grinning and crying in joy as he went to run across the crossing and embrace his beloved father. His cry of 'Dad!' was cut off mid-way. Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion, at least in Matthew's eyes. Alfred sprinting off, the bus trying to slam on brakes, the skid of wheels.. It was the agonizing opposite of a blur.

It was in only a few seconds that it was Alfred covering the road.

"Alfred-!" The gargled and choked scream came from Matthew, who ran over to the now-bloodied boy on the road. He could only scream in horror as the bus drove off; the driver was probably spooked. "Oh-.. My god-.." Arthur gagged, covering his hand with his mouth, tears pushing at his eyes. Not one of them could even start to comprehend the situation, with Matthew leaning down and latching onto his brother, hugging him like he should've done before today. Thoughts of the movie were erased from his mind.

Alfred's body was twisted, and he was bent in places he shouldn't have been. Blood from a head wound – most probably one from impact with the vehicle – splattered about where he lay. Matthew was too distressed, crying too loudly now and despairing too much to even focus on the scene. His cries were mostly just Alfred's name. Despite the arms of his fathers that slowly snaked around him, he would not stop bawling. Nothing like this had ever happened around him; this scene both frightened and sickened him. The stench of blood polluted the air.

A passerby called paramedics, but the family already knew that it was too late for Alfred to be rescued. He had been dead on impact, Matthew could tell. He was torn away from his fathers and brother and trundled off into an ambulance. Francis, Matthew, and Arthur went along, although at least two of them knew it was pointless. Francis still had some vague hope.

Arthur clutched at the bouquet in his hands, seeing it as nothing but shallow now. He doubted Francis would want it right now anyway. There was something in his mind telling him that the incident was his fault, and he began to believe it. Alfred had been running towards _him_, after all. He couldn't get anything right, could he? First, his marriage, and then, the life of his own child.

Matthew slumped against Francis in the ambulance, hoarse from his earlier wailing. Pathetically, he fixed his glasses, and buried his face in his father's sleeve. The Frenchman just glanced between his son – he made sure to pat his head gently – and Arthur, the latter of which he held hands with. Even though their grounds were shaky now, that tiny fragment of comfort was what he was craving.

The hospital was as miserable as ever. There was the smell of medicine and plastic all through it, and it made Matthew feel vile in the stomach. It hurt him to even walk at this point, for he was feeling rather destroyed from the inside out. This was supposed to be a happy day out with their father. He felt even worse for not sensing what his painting had been, this very event of the bus crash!

The trio waited outside of the emergency room, as doctors danced about Alfred with their tools and bandages. It was a hard hour of waiting before anyone came out to give them an update. Matthew had honestly been expecting a grim verdict.

"Misters Bonnefoy, your son is suffering blood loss and trauma," the doctor stated, glancing down to her clipboard. God, they sure were subtle, weren't they? Francis and Arthur just squeezed the hands of one another. "However, he is sitting at a stable condition for now." She nodded, and smiled weakly as Matthew pulled his fathers into a tight hug.

It wasn't as if Arthur was just suddenly back into their good books, but he was comfort, and family, and nothing breaks the bonds of family.

"He's alive-" breathed Matthew, smiling shakily. "Papa, he's alive!" He repeated, clutching at Francis's shirt.

"Alfred's alive.." he wheezed, eliciting a quiet and celebratory laugh. Arthur was awkward around them, since his absence had been long and painful, but he tried to chip in anyway.

After a few more minutes, they were allowed in one by one to check up on Alfred. The elder two agreed that Matthew should go first.


	3. Numb and Home

**final (lame) chapter! i hope you enjoy uwu**

* * *

"Alfred.." Matthew breathed as he stepped into the room, eyes wet with recent tears. Even before today, the two had been close to the point where they were sometimes confused as lovers. The boy in the bed was quiet and he looked as if he was on the verge of falling asleep. Mind-numbing painkillers and blood loss bordering on severe did that to a person. There was a drip connected to his arm, and there were little stitches on his cheeks. There had been a comment earlier about how his glasses had shattered, and the lens shards had dug into his face. There would probably be scars.

"Matthew.." his brother whispered back, turning over his arm so that his hand appeared outstretched. Matthew took it at once, and sat down beside the hospital bed. "It doesn't hurt anymore, bro-.." he laughed softly, blue eyes moving to glance down to where his legs were beneath the blanket.

"What doesn't hurt..?" murmured Matthew, who was holding Alfred's hand in both of his, and trying not to cry again.  
His lips curled up in a bit of a sad smile, peering to his brother's hands over his own. "I can't feel my legs anymore," Alfred laughed bitterly, leaning back in his bed. "I'm so dosed up that I'm numb everywhere else."  
"Oh, Alfred.." he whispered, glancing to the floor and biting his lip.

"I'm just so glad you're alive-" Matthew said quietly. "I thought you'd died.."

"I could've sworn I saw a light," joked Alfred. His cheer, albeit weak and diminished, was still there, and it still shone through the darkness of the air around them.

"Don't go into the light, little bro," sighed Matthew, giving a tiny smile and leaning down to kiss his brother's cheek.

"My cheeks are numb," Alfred complained softly, creasing his brows. "Lips," he instructed, voice painfully soft.

"Fine," puffed his brother, who moved a bit, and pushed his lips against Alfred's. That was the touch that Matthew needed to gain a wave of inspiration. "Papa is going to come in after me, yeah? And then Dad." He murmured, ruffling Alfred's messy hair.

"I never thought I'd see Dad again," he chuckled. He squeezed Matthew's hand as much as he could, as if fearing that if he let go, he'd never get the chance to hold it again.

"Me neither." Francis commented, standing at the door.

"Papa," the brothers chimed, glancing up and both giving little smiles.

"May I take my turn now, _Matthieu?_" Their father hummed, taking another step inside and dabbing at his eyes.

Matthew nodded. He pecked his brother's hand, and murmured 'I love you', before standing and passing Francis to go out to the corridor; Arthur was waiting outside.

Just like that, Francis took up the space beside the hospital bed. He leant down and held Alfred in a loose embrace, letting out a heavy sigh.

"My dear son," he started, pulling back and offering a lame smile. "How are you holding up?"

The answer was simple, but Alfred kept the truth hidden to try and reassure his father. "I'm okay." He stated, laughing softly. He had wished to say that he felt broken and tired, but Francis had always had enough worry within him. He wished not to be a bigger burden. "A bit out of it thanks to the drugs, but other than that, okay."

"I was terrified, _mon cher_-" whimpered his father, who was on the brink of crying again.

"How did you think I felt?" Alfred joked quietly, touching at Francis's shoulder. "But I'm okay now-.. Kind of okay-" He murmured, eyes falling once again to his legs. At school, he had been on the football team, and was a real sportsman. Oh, the quirk of fate. "Are you and Dad-" he started, creasing his brow for a moment.

"We're talking things over." Francis interjected. "We have a more important matter to focus on at the moment; you." He said quietly, stroking his son's cheek. "I love you so much, Alfred."

"Love you too, Papa," weakly chuckled Alfred, who just rested his weary eyes for a moment. "Can I talk to Dad before the painkillers knock the wake out of me?"

"Ah, of course," he replied in a mumble, pressing soft kisses to his son's forehead and then going out of the room to retrieve Arthur.

Arthur stood at the door for a moment, before wiping his eyes and hurrying to Alfred's side.

"God, I shouldn't have left- Alfred, I'm so sorry," he started, causing Alfred to furrow his brow.

"I'm not angry at you or anything." He murmured, glancing away.

Arthur bit his lip, and just let the tears fall. As much as he had wanted to keep his resolve, now just wasn't the time. "But this is all my fault, I-"

"I'm the idiot who started running though traffic." Alfred puffed, cutting his father off. "Dad, this isn't your fault at all." He sighed, voice growing quieter by the minute. "I need to sleep,"

"I'm still so sorry, my dear son," Arthur murmured, grimacing. "I'm going to try and fix things, I swear it."

Alfred just smiled, before letting his eyes close and proceeding to doze off.

The doctors instructed the trio to allow Alfred his rest, and told them that they could stay in the waiting room for now. Matthew asked around until he found someone who was willing to lend him a pencil and some paper, returned to his fathers, and started to draw.

It was almost as if he was in a trance as he put down fast strokes, putting in more lines at a quick pace. As he finished shading, he was knocked out of his spell, and glanced down to what he'd drawn. It was.. It was them. Arthur and Francis held hands in the back, wearing plastered and forced smiles. Perhaps it was a little brash for Matthew to think of it like that, but it was how they appeared. In front of them, he sat, hugging his knees upon the floor. Alfred was beside him, sitting in a wheelchair and smiling ever so weakly. Puffing quietly, he folded it up, and tucked it away into his pockets. It was too upsetting for now.

The next week or so was hard and dragged out; the family was allowed more visits inside the room as the days passed by. Finally, it was decided that Alfred was well enough to return home for now. Francis and Arthur had been notified about Alfred's situation with his legs. However, this didn't stop them from feeling heartbreaking sadness at the sight of Alfred slowly wheeling himself forward and towards them.

"We can go home now, bro," Matthew said softly, turning so that he was moving alongside his brother. His drawing from all those days ago still haunted him, and seeing Alfred in a wheelchair – just as he had illustrated – shattered his heart.

"Home~!" cheered the boy, smiling a little as he tried to keep turning the wheels. "Man, this is tiring," he whined softly.

"You never change, do you?" mused Matthew, ruffling his brother's hair. "We'll go out and get you some new glasses as soon as we can, yeah?"

Alfred agreed, dipping his head and yawning. "But for now, I just wanna go home," he insisted.

Francis and Arthur trailed alongside them, fingers loosely interlaced as they both passed glances to their son. It was hard for either of them to speak freely between themselves now – despite the apologies –, but they had decided to be strong for their sons. Their dear children were what mattered, and if they had to wear faux smiles and pretend to hold each other tight, so be it. It was what was best for the family.

It took a while for Alfred to settle into his new life, but Francis was around to help a lot more, now that Arthur contributed back to the family funds. It was nice for him not to have to work as much. Matthew moved his canvases out of Francis's bedroom and they ended up cluttering his bedroom even more. He painted many things, and developed a habit of hiding bad paintings from onlookers. Matthew ended up with a small stack under his bed.

Alfred spent late school afternoons at the coffee store with Matthew. The boy had taken up interest in astrology at some point, and he often spent nights staring up at the night sky through a telescope. Things generally seemed to be getting better for all of them, and Matthew was heavily relieved. Things seemed to be as back to normal as they could get.

Until he painted broken bits of a wine glass held threateningly to a man's throat, that was.

* * *

**the end!**


End file.
